I, Dallas Winston
by piratelassie15
Summary: Before robbing a grocery store to bring about his murder/suicide, Dally calls an old friend from NYC, and some surprising truths about him are revealed.


The phone rang.

I could not believe it. The last time someone had called me at midnight, I had chewed the poor soul out so hard that he was reduced to tears. In the sort of lifestyle I led, sleep was hard to come by, so I savored every nanosecond I got. This better be an emergency, or whoever's calling is a dead man.

Reaching out with my left hand, I groped around on my nightstand for my cell phone, which was on vibrate mode and therefore sliding off the edge of the table with every vibration. Flipping it open, I jammed the button that would accept the call (or, at least, I thought it was the right button… it was too dark to tell), and held it up to my ear.

"This better be important." I grumbled, half-sleeping, as a way of greeting.

"Delilah?" the voice on the other end said.

I froze, hardly daring to believe it… it couldn't be… it just couldn't…

"Dallas?" I squeaked. I knew that voice. Oh, how I had missed it, longed for it, every day since he left…

"Yeah, it's me." he said. The way he was breathing sounded very much like he was in some cramped space without much time on his hands. "I knew you'd be pissed off because I'm calling so late…"

"Oh, shut the hell up, Dallas." I said. Jumping out of bed with renewed energy, I began pacing like a jackal in a cage. "I'd accept a call from you while hiding out from the fuzz. What's up?"  
"Look," he said. "I realize that we never really said… you know… a decent goodbye, and…"

I rolled my eyes. "You're calling at midnight because you've just realized, after about two years, that our goodbye consisted of throwing objects across the room at each other? I'm not here to talk about the past, Dallas. What's the deal?"

Dallas sighed. I knew that sigh. He was trying desperately to get his thoughts together before I got bored and started yelling at him over trivial things for lack of anything else to say.

"Look," he finally said. "You remember when we met… don't you?" He added accusingly at the end.

"Not hard to forget." I grumbled. I wasn't sure where he was heading, but decided to play his game anyway. I was up, anyhow, and there was no way sleep was coming now. "I was eight… and you were ten, right?"

"Yeah." Dallas said. "I had just committed my first theft…" he trailed off, obviously wandering around in a field of happy memories.

"Mm-hmm." I said. "And you needed a place to hide out, 'cause you had about twenty frickin' cop cars on your ass, and I let you chill at my place 'till it blew over."

Dallas gave a sort of grunt of assent, before finally coming out with, "I'm sorry."

Hell, I didn't even think that son-of-a-bitch knew what those words even meant! I, for once, could not come up with a single thing to say. And, believe me, that's saying something.

"I didn't mean to… you know… do that to you." Dallas said, so quietly that I could scarcely hear him. "I just… I don't know… ever since Carrie died…"

Carrie was Dallas' ex-girlfriend, and also one of the only girls he had ever even come close to loving. She was a brave girl, almost to the point of stupidity. She was killed in a gang fight, almost three years ago. I knew that Dallas had never gotten over it. I knew that Carrie had been the only person that Dallas had really ever cared about. Except maybe me, but that's a different sort of caring.

"I know." I said. "I understand. I really do."

"No, you don't." he said harshly. "You can never understand."

"Dallas, you're not the first person who's done it to me." I snapped. Then, regaining a grip on myself, I smiled. "Actually, it wasn't all that bad."

Dallas gave a humorless laugh.

"Look," I said. "Why're you bringing up all this stuff now? It's nearly midnight! It couldn't wait till morning?"

When I got no reply, I suddenly remembered what had happened the last time he had started going all mushy and sentimental like this...

"No." I blurted suddenly. "No, you can't. Snap out of it. Snap out of it _right now_."

"Delilah, shut the fuck up and don't talk about things you don't understand!" Dallas growled like an angry dog.

"Dallas, don't you remember?" I demanded, close to tears. "I tried, once, too! But if you fail, things will only get worse from there! Don't do it, please!"

When I got no reply, I decided to pull out my final anvil. "I talked to your sister last night."

Did I really expect him to say anything after dropping a bombshell like that? Did he believe me? It seemed unlikely.

"Impossible." he said hoarsely. "Why would she talk to you?"

"She asked me about you." I said. It was the truth, but whether he would believe it or not is another story.

"She wouldn't." Dallas said objectively. "She didn't give a shit about me. Never did. Just like my father."

"She asked about you." I repeated. "Wanted to know where you were, why she never saw you anymore."

"That's not true." Dallas growled, and I wondered who he was trying to convince. "You're lying, I can tell. I've always been able to tell."

"Dallas, please," I rolled my eyes, hoping he wasn't about to go into one of his weird moods again.

"Why must you always lie to me?" Dallas growled, and I heard him pounding a wall with his fist. "Oh, but remember, you _weren't_ going out with Hendrick, right? Isn't that right?"

"I lied to you _once_." I said coldly.

"I've never trusted you." he said harshly. "From the first day you met me, all you tried to do was hurt me. I see it in your eyes. You enjoy it."

"Dallas..." I started, but he wasn't even listening.

"Well, don't worry, Delilah, because you won't have to worry about hurting me any longer. Because, one day, you'll wake up in the morning and read about my death in the paper. And you'll be sorry. Just you wait."

"Dallas, _no_!" I screamed, but the line was disconnected. Either he hung up, or he ran out of money. I'm guessing the first one.

I knew he was planning suicide from the moment he picked up the phone. Why, I've no idea. I knew he suffered from some sort of personality disorder that caused him to be naturally mistrustful and cold, but living on the West Side for years did that to you, too. It did that to me. I had seen the worst in him that night. And I knew, without even knowing how I knew, that that was the last time I would ever speak to Dallas Winston, the dearest friend I had ever had.

The next morning, I read about Dallas' death in the paper. And I was sorry. For all the things I said to him. For all the things that could never be undone. For all the things about him I never knew (who _was_ Johnny Cade, anyway, and why did Dallas care about him so much?). For all the things we said to each other that we didn't really mean. For all the tough times we went through that didn't strengthen our relationship, but tear it apart. I was sorry, for both myself and him. And, as I folded up the newspaper and struck out for another day of pickpocketing on the streets of Manhattan, I found that I was not only sorry for myself, but sorry for the whole world of friendships that didn't turn out quite the way we wanted them to be.


End file.
